2007+Narratives

Meeting Him Again By Alexa Harrelson

I saw him across the restaurant. We, my mother and I, were having a night out. It might seem odd to others that a meal at Taco Tico was special, but to us it was. Dad won’t eat Mexican because it gives him heartburn and as a single mother, anytime out without the kids is special. Dad was out of town so Mom asked me to go out with her and even paid for the babysitter. Wow! A date with my mother. This was the most excitement I had in six months and it had been six months since leaving Virginia.

What caused me to leave was that I saw my x having a drink with her at a bar next to his office. How many times had I sat at home wondering? His best friend had told me that no man in his right mind would leave a woman like me alone at night. There had to be another woman. I didn’t believe it, of course. I am forever the optimist, until I saw it with my own eyes. I blinked myself back to the present.

Mom was saying something about not going to the Antique Tool Association meeting with Dad because of her new dog. This dog doesn’t like people like her last dog, Max, did. She had taken Max to meetings for several years. Everyone knew Max, especially the one guy who Max always growled at. I tried to look interested. No one ever knew why he only growled at that man, but I knew that Max never really liked me either. Some might say it was jealousy but I don’t really think so. It is true that Max didn’t like me to hug my mother. She seemed to prefer to hold the dog so I don’t know what his problem was. Mother never knew what to do with me when I was upset. Let’s face it. This has been an upsetting six months.

There he is staring at me again. It must be someone from my past but I don’t know who. Everyone recognizes my mother because she has looked the same for the last 20 years. I hope I look as great as she does when I’m 65. She was still camping seven years ago with the Girl Scouts.

That reminds me. I ask her how Chris is. That sent her into another long tale. Chris had been her co-leader when I was a Cadet Scout. Most girls quit Girl Scouts about middles school but every time I tried to quit my mother would take over the troop. It was ok. We went on some really neat trips. A high school level Girl Scout troop also does community service project that kept me out of trouble. My mother was the director for the local Girl Scout Day Camp for two years after I graduated from high school. I came home from college and became a leader for a week of camp.

Chris is doing fine. She bought a large sail boat and then found out that she has skin cancer. Wow! What a tough break. I ought to go by and see her. “Yeah, I know,” I reply, “but between work and the boys, I’m lucky to even get any sleep. I can only study when they are asleep.”

Who is that man? I try to imagine him without the beard but get nowhere. He is sitting with a blond young enough to be his daughter. Nope. Definitely not his daughter. Not the way she just showed him her cleavage. Girls these days have no class. They don’t know that a pretty package can be mysterious and give a man something to dream about without disclosing the entire merchandise. Oh no! I am beginning to sound like my father. “Why should a buy the cow when he gets the milk for free.” How can I think anything when I newly divorced even if it wasn’t my infidelity? There is another saying that if the husband is satisfied at home he will not go looking but you also can’t force a horse to drink. I need to get out of the barnyard.

Oh No, Here he comes. Great. Now I’m reduced to thinking like a high school student. I motion for my mother to look up as he comes from behind her to say hello. His voice is familiar and I realize that this ruggedly handsome man is one of the young boys that I used to date in high school. Now, isn’t that a coincidence.

Overcoming Fear

My husband is deathly afraid of snakes. He is so unreasonable. After a trip to the sand dunes, he and his previous wife had brought in their camping gear and thrown it in the kitchen and went to bed. The next morning, dressed in only his underwear he wandered into the kitchen for a drink of milk. As he opened the refrigerator, he looked down to see a rattler curled between his feet. He doesn’t know how he made it to the top of the kitchen table but he knew that on the way he have grabbed his revolver off of the top of the refrigerator. I can only imagine the yelling that ensued as his wife told him not to shoot up the kitchen and he called the police station to get animal control to come rid his kitchen of the vermin. The interesting thing was that the officer that came was just as afraid of snakes. He just stood at the kitchen door watching the spectacle of his buddy dressed in briefs and cowboy boots, waving a thirty-eight around at a snake that was nowhere to be seen. The snake was not stupid. It had retreated under the refrigerator. Two grown men and you know who got rid of the snake. The wife. Armed with a broom and a shovel on the back porch, she propped the back door open, shoed the snake out with the broom and cut its head off with the shovel. Only then could Wayne be persuaded to put the weapon down.

She, of course, put its body into the trash can, put its head in a jar and then into the trashcan. She knew that the head can still bite a person and the venom is still lethal.

The guys at the station thought the whole episode was so funny that they decided to try it again. They tied the dead body to a sting that was attached to the inside of the door of Wayne’s truck. When Wayne opened the truck the body moved from under the truck to rest between his feet again. Whoever said fat white men can’t jump has never seen someone with the correct motivation. Wayne landed in the bed of the truck. The guys of course were all standing in the doorway of the fire station grinning in glee.

It was then that he saw that it was a setup and there was no head on the snake.

I personally feel sorry for the snake.

Determined to rid himself of this irrational fear, Wayne headed out to the snake roundup in Oklahoma. They collect up rattlers put them into a pit and the handlers go into it. Wayne actually went and watched. I’m so proud of him!

At a motorcycle rally some time later, he was glad to have made himself go through the difficulty of overcoming this fear. He was helping a young man from the rally with a burned hand received at work. It needed to be rewrapped to keep it clean. Wayne is standing directly in front of the man when a snake sticks its head out of the buttons on the front of his shirt. Wayne is face to face with his nemesis. Thankfully Wayne had turned his revolver in for a much stronger weapon, The Word of God. I would hate to have seen what would have happened a few years previously. The serpent is mentioned in the Bible in the Garden of Eden. Most of us believe that this is the first snake. Is it any wonder that most of us fear them? Wayne continued wrapping the young man’s hand and actually became friends with BC or Baby Critter (the snake).

I’ve never net a snake with personality before this one. He seemed to enjoy startling people. I was sitting cross-legged in a field listening to the preacher on Sunday morning at that same rally when a little girl that had been in my Sunday school class came from behind me and plopped down on my lap. I came face to face with BC because he was wrapped around the girl’s neck. I paused, took a breath and looked around. I figured someone had put her up to it and off to the left were three big bikers smiling at me. I just smiled back and put my attention back on the preaching. It is interesting that Satan tried to use the same distraction as before to distract people from the word of God.

_

Making a Difference Mary Dohl SCKWP-2007

Eighth graders can be a challenge. They are on the top rung of the education ladder in middle school. They are in their final year before heading off to high school – or one year closer to the age of 16 and are just waiting to drop out. Students who have learning problems and the low self esteem that generally comes with them, can be even more challenging.

That was Catalina. She was in my 8th grade language arts class. She struggled with reading and responding to questions in any form. Writing was a daunting task. Encouragement that I’d give to her often was met with downcast eyes and seemingly deaf ears. Sometimes she would sit quietly doing nothing. At other times she would deliberately disrupt the class, at times even to the point that I would have to send her to the AIR (alternate instruction room) so I could work effectively with the rest of the class.

Our school had a couple of rules that she refused to comply with too. Those were “Keep your shirt tucked in,” and “Do not chew gum.” There were consequences printed in the school handbook for not following these requirements. I would give the students a chance to comply at the beginning of class by reminding them, “Check your shirts,” and “Gum goes here.”

Catalina chose to ignore the reminders. She was a short, round girl so I could understand why she did not feel good about tucking in her shirt. There are many reasons why teens like to chew gum, and she cited many including, “It’s a dumb rule.” I continued to remind her on a daily basis and to administer consequences as needed.

Despite her indifference, disruptions, and refusal to cooperate, I continued to greet her by name with a smile, offer help, call on her when I felt she would be successful in having an answer, and pair her with students who were patient and helpful. She had some better days, some worse, and some in-between. Finally, with encouragement and ample support, she managed to graduate from eighth grade and go on to high school.

I did not realize until the beginning of the second semester of her freshman year in high school how great an impact I had made in her life. One afternoon after my students had gone home Catalina and her mother appeared at the doorway of my classroom. We visited for awhile about the grades she’d been earning in high school. She told me that she was enjoying school, staying out of trouble, and feeling great about her life. Then she caught me by surprise by adding “… and it’s all because of you, Ms. Dohl.” She went on to say that I’d never given up on her. It meant so much to her that I hadn’t stopped trying to help her no matter how she acted or what she said to me. My persistence had helped her learn to believe that she could do the assignments, and although it may not have seemed like it at the time, she was glad that I was her teacher.

She and her mom each gave me a hug before they left. I had tears in my eyes as I thanked them for taking the time to come to see me and make my day. That visit was fuel to take me through the rest of the school year…and for years beyond. Not all come back to tell me, but I know that there are more Catalinas out there!

by Steve Maack
 * The Four-Poster**

The first apartment Anne and I shared was the top half of a duplex in Minneapolis, Minnesota. It was a little two-bedroom job with a kitchen and a back room we used for TV-watching (13 glorious inches of black and white) and a living space. I remember our tiny, seemingly uninsulated bedroom and our new bed as symbols of this new life on which my wife and I had embarked.

My father is a woodworker, and his wedding gift to us was an extra-high walnut four-poster with a canopy frame. It’s a gorgeous piece of work, and moving this newly finished piece of art into our shabby little house defied good sense. It seemed as if the posts of this queen-sized monstrosity would scrape the ceiling when we set up the posts. My side of the bed was so close to the wall that I had to shimmy sideways next to the wall to get around it and into the more open part of the room at the foot of the bed. Anne had more room on her side, but not much.

We moved into this duplex in August right after our honeymoon, and air conditioning is seldom essential in Minnesota. But our little bedroom only had one window and it could be stifling in the summer. We kept an ancient, metal oscillating fan going all night. And when winter came, the fan went into a closet and the bed became our nighttime refuge from the cold and from our tentative early days together.

I had brought a queen-size down comforter to this marital arrangement, and Anne had received a thick wool blanket from her parents that reputedly had been hand-woven in Mexico. It feels one-half inch thick and seemed totally necessary in tandem with the comforter to keep us alive in the sub-zero Minnesota winters.

I remember the winter nights best, snuggling with my new wife to keep warm, using each other to fight off the harsh frigidity of the night. The smallness of the bedroom only contributed to my sense that we stood together in this fortress against whatever might threaten our lives together. Often, those steely, harsh daytime moments of poor communication or lack of compromise that stood as real and substantial barriers to our relationship would dissipate overnight like a sand castle falls to nothing when the tides come in. This bed represented comfort and sharing, and it helped lay the foundation of our relationship together. It was where we learned to communicate after disagreements, where our sexual experimentation took place, and where we learned to balance our personal and professional lives.

I still associate that bed with 5:00 AM substitute teaching calls. I woke and answered the calls as quickly as possible so I wouldn’t wake Anne. Then I sidled out of our bed into the freezing night, turned up the thermostat, and showered for my day as a hopeful, someday teacher. I regretted every moment of having to leave my wife so I could work and make money, but leaving her and that warm, safe bed ironically allowed us to make a living so that we could continue our lives together.

Even now, every day or our continued lives together begins and ends in that bed, and consequently, every day begins and ends with a reminder of how my wife and I have built our lives and our love together. The mattress has changed, and our room is bigger, but the bed is still there, four posts rising into the air of our future together, and sinking deep into the foundation of our relationship.

Emily L. Koch SCKWP East July 18, 2007

Mini-van Thank You We leave for the trip tomorrow, and the van is covered in the flotsam and jetsam of my children. I never really wanted to drive a mini – van but the practicality of the vehicle was too great with children 18 months apart. We have owned the van for 3 years now and it was beginning to show its age. A myriad of spills that would never be cleaned, spots, and various candies stuck in unattainable places. I am not as clean as my mother and truly do not mind leaving gum in a place impossible to clean. I pull into the car wash and up to the vacuum, throw open the doors and hatchback, start my task. The first thing is to rid myself of pure obvious trash. Out go receipts, various candy paper, (do my children really eat that many sweets?) boxes from various toys and a lid. It’s an orange lid and most certainly trash but with a grim smile I remember the glue bottle it came off of. School was about to start and I had bought supplies for my kindergartener and first grader. The shiny newness of the supplies proved irresistible to my oldest child and off came the lid. “Oops” I hear from the back of the van. “What oops?” I said only slightly alarmed. “The lid popped off and I can’t find it.” “Is the glue still inside?” I asked. “Most of it.” He replied. Silly kid. Most of the glue was on his pants but one quarter sized dollop made it to the van’s floor. A permanent discoloration of the carpet that inevitably caught more dirt than any other it was now part of the car, like the color and the coffee stains. After the trash was gone I began to find the little toys that make it to the little places in my van. I wonder if there are car gremlins that play with the marble in the dark of the garage when we are all asleep, and stand up on the chess piece as if it were a pulpit from which to speak. I imagine a little car gremlins sitting on the little blue rubber whale listening to the impassioned speech of the lead gremlin. He lashes out at the unfairness of cleaning the van and suggests the gremlins should take refuge in the engine just to spite me. I banish the thought from my head; I don’t want to attract bad van carma. Working my way to the back of the car I lift the blanket kept there for emergencies and find a little plastic bracelet of the genre made popular by Lance Armstrong. Too small for either child’s wrist it is a reminder of how often my children come with me to work. The bracelet is printed with the name of the school where I teach and is one of two given to the boys when they were there helping me. They know the hallways so well now that I often worry they will wander too far from me and get lost in the cavernous places of a school built in the Jazz age. I stick the small bracelet in the “to keep” pile and think wistfully of the days when they were so small that they were never more than two inches away from me. Yet I am as grateful for their burgeoning independence and I am for the absence of the crumb catching car seats. Once all the toys and little plastic pieces are picked out and sorted from the van I vacuum. There is more dirt than there is carpet. Sand and grass from excursions to the park and lakes. It has held my children well and served it purpose. When I am done I stand back and mentally thank the large blue hunk of machinery that is my mini-van. Thank you for getting us there safely. Thank you for being big enough to accommodate all our stuff. Thank you for being easy to clean. I feel lost when I am in the van by myself and often think of my carbon footprint as I waste gas. I want new car. Smaller and less like a bus. A smaller car would save money. I will buy the car because I can but I feel disloyal to my van. My plan is to park the van and use it when I need to haul my children or people. This mean it will be around for awhile and I find that comforting. This van transports the two things most precious to me in the world. It is not sexy but it is practical and for that this mother is grateful.

Narrative Autumn Reflection Mary Dohl July 13, 2007

Home for a relaxing weekend away from the demands of college life, I found myself as a passenger in my father’s faded blue Chevy truck. Our destination was the milo field at the far end of the fields that were bordered by the river. The dirt road over which we traveled was scarred with deep ruts that caused us to pitch to and fro inside the cab. The old seats had cushions that were threadbare in places and the worn springs under them no longer helped aid in the comfort of our ride. The bite of the late fall frosts had left its mark on the patches of earth on either side of us. The pasture grass, once an emerald, was now the color of butterscotch. The dried vegetation crackled beneath the hooves of the black Angus cattle as they lazily drifted along ripping out mouthfuls of forage. Weathered stone posts stood as unyielding sentinels around the meadow supporting heavily barbed wire.

We bumped long past the trees that lined the river banks The sycamore, elm, ash, oak, and cottonwood trees, arrayed in hues of yellow, orange, and brown, afforded a breathtaking sight. Some of them, once adorned in rich fall finery, were now carelessly casting off their leaves creating a blanket on the ground below. The trees nearest the road were admirable not only for their beauty, but also for their amazing growth. Through the years, sturdy young saplings had matured and stretched lofty branches ever farther through the air; then they bent low becoming obstacles in the narrow road. Consequently, farm vehicles gave way to the trees and claimed the edges of the fields as their new passageway.

We rounded a curve that followed a bend in the river and before us laid a vast rusty-red sea of ripened milo. At one end of the field the combine rested, looming like a great green giant over the drying grain stalks. Its sickles were frozen teasingly just below the heads of the plants.

While Dad gave the combine the once-over, greased the zerks, checked the air filter, and adjusted the chains for tightness, I surveyed the area around us. I noticed the weeding implement parked on a grassy patch just off the road and was reminded of my experience as a field hand during the summer. I could almost feel the fiery rays of the sun once again that had engulfed me in their warmth. I saw in my mind’s eye the small twisters that had playfully whirled from one end of the field to the other, often including me in their games. They played rough, flinging dirt in my eyes, or when catching me off guard, snatching my straw hat from my head and tossing it to the ground some distance away. It was quite easy to be caught unawares while working the fields. There were many interesting sights to observe, mysteries to ponder, and ways to entertain myself. Often, something in nature presented itself to me. I’d notice a small bug scurrying to get out of the path of my growling tractor and ponder what the lifespan of the tiny creature was, how it spent its day, and if it had family waiting for it to return home. The hawks circling over the fields would bring thoughts to my mind about the poor creature that would be their next meal. At other times, the lyrics the many musicals and albums I had memorized popped into my head and I would perform a concert for all of the creatures in the great outdoors.

Next, a narrow strip of neglected land along the river bank evoked memories of earlier times. It had once been our potato patch. Planting potatoes around St. Patrick’s Day was once a rite of spring in our family. I remembered the matched team of old gray work horses that were enormous and powerful. Their huge hooves stepped surely as they dragged the plow that sliced the earth open into even rows. We’d eagerly grab our gunny sacks. Our hands would soon turn grubby as we’d reach into the bags for recently quartered starchy, wet potatoes and drop them into the furrows. Then, ever so gently, our small feet would press them into the sandy soil. Finally, the horses would drag the harrow which spread the soil evenly over the top of the patch. I recalled too, the excitement we had felt a few months later as the first forkful of potatoes was turned over and our hands brushed away the loose dirt that clung to them.

I looked to the place we used to access the river below. The slope there had been gradual enough to allow us to descend the river bank to our favorite fishing spot. I had sat there with my dad waiting for a Saline River catfish to grab my bait. I remembered how silently we had waited on those fish while hearing only the gentle burbling water, the steady whir-whir of locusts in the trees above, and the occasional haunting almost human cry of peacocks that lived on our neighbor’s property.

Suddenly the combine came to life with a chugging sound. Then the auger was spinning and round, rust-colored seeds were spilling into the bed of the truck. My dad climbed down from the harvest monster and stepped up on the running board of the truck. He scooped up a handful of milo in his gnarled, work-worn hands and inspected it as carefully as a jeweler would examine a precious gem. As I observed his actions, I recognized the pride of a man who knew his job had been well done. His knowledge of the soil and the seed and God’s sustenance had produced a bountiful crop.

When the bed of the truck was loaded to the top of the sideboards, Dad shut down the engine of the combine. We climbed back into the cab of the old blue Chevy and soon we were rocking along on the dirt road in the direction of the farm buildings. It had been a relatively short excursion, but I had caught a glimpse of what sustains a farmer against great odds. He achieves a unique communication with nature as he labors. Sometimes he is working hand in hand with the elements, but at other times he is struggling against them. There are sleepless nights when drenching rains threaten sprouting seed. There are anxious afternoons when storm clouds gather and deliver hail to a field of ripening grain. Other years, the rains might refuse to fall and the tender leaves of the crops must endure effects of the scorching the sun. However, those trials are balanced by moments such as I’d witnessed on this day.

On this October day, I experienced an increased admiration for my father. The farm life had been our family life. Dad taught his children to appreciate nature in all of its forms. He often invited us to accompany him on enjoyable excursions. There were truck trips to check the water in a pasture pond, rides to the sale barn to sell a load of squealing hogs or bawling cattle, or early morning walks to the farrowing house to see the first litter of baby pigs. Sometimes, when most of the farm work was caught up, we’d pack a lunch and take a long walk to explore the creek bed. He knew where the places on the farm with the neat names were like the Rocky Ford, Gerdes Rocks, and Grasshopper Hill. When the chokecherries were ready to pick, we’d pile into the back of his truck with our buckets and all go strip the bushes of the tart, mouth puckering fruit. Through these experiences, he taught us about the beauty of nature.

We also learned from my father about the merits of hard work. He believed that some of the best work could be done early in the day so he was usually up and out of the house by 6 a.m. He seldom spent the daylight hours in the house on weekdays, except to cool off during blistering hot days in the summer or to thaw out by the fire in cold cruel winters. When daylight savings time stretched the hours of light, he would stay in the field until darkness made work difficult. If it would be too wet for fieldwork, there was always fence to fix, musk thistles dig out of the pasture, or wood to cut for the fireplace. He passed on that work ethic to me and my siblings.

When I reflect on my years as a farm kid, I recognize the exceptional value of the country life I was privileged to live. I feel a distinct connection to the land and for the people who were part of my early years there. I don’t know what the future will hold, but it is difficult to imagine what it would be like to not have the farm to go back to for holidays with the family or just to spend a weekend quietly communing with nature. Because it has special meaning and precious memories for me, I hope Sylvan Farms will be in the family for the rest of my time here on Earth and for many years more.

by Wendy Graber**
 * "Gargoyle Ruins"

My favorite part of spring is waking up on a lazy weekend morning to the gentle breeze and the scent of dew on fresh-cut grass wafting in through the open window. I especially like it when the air is just cool enough so that I snuggle down into my down comforter, like a joey in its mother’s pouch with only its head sticking out from the warmth. On this particular morning, however, something was amiss. I opened one eye and squinted towards the window. Yes, it was open as it should be. Yes, a gentle breeze was moving the sheer curtains about in billowy patterns. Yes, I was cozy and secure in my down oasis. I closed my eye and then took stock of my position. Yes, I decided, I was quite comfortable, cocooned snugly among all four fluffy pillows. What the heck was the matter, then? Suddenly my eyes popped wide open and I was fully awake. The smell! Good God, the smell! It was not dew on freshly cut grass. It was not the remnants of a late-night spring shower. It was not the smell of lavender and roses drifting up from the flower bed below my bedroom window. It //was// a stench I had smelled before, but how it could find its way into my bedroom and violate my sacred weekend tranquility was something I could not understand. It was the smell… of //skunk.// Begrudgingly, I crawled out of bed and put on my robe and bunny slippers (yes, I said bunny slippers. I’ve had them going on twenty years now and they’ve been quite faithful). Oh! How the putrid smell was worse from a standing position! I ventured through the hall and down the stairs towards the front door. Every step I took seemed to further envelope me in the wretched stench. I opened the front door hoping for some relief, but the smell outside was even more overwhelming than inside. I was just about to return to the safety of my, albeit stinky, house when something caught my eye. The cute little gargoyle I had at the base of the front porch stairs appeared to be covered in some kind of mucusy muck. “Do you see it?” Mr. Smith, my neighbor, called out. He was in his familiar position on his front porch, leaning back in his favorite rocker. He sees everything that goes on in the neighborhood from that chair. In fact, I think he’s in that porch chair more than he’s in his house. “What is it?” I asked with a wrinkled-up nose as I squinted in his direction. He chuckled to himself. “Yep, I’ve never seen anything like it. Hissin’ and growlin’ to all get out!” He laughed again. I didn’t see anything funny. “What hissing and growling? The gargoyle? It’s just a statue,” I said. At least it //used to be// a statue. I didn’t know what it was now. It looked like something an alien had given birth to, with all the drippy, smelly goo hanging from its wings. “Of course not that statue! But the statue set him off, it sure did.” Mr. Smith’s laughter began to gain momentum. “You’d uh thought that skunk had met his arch rival!” “The skunk?” I said. “Yea, the skunk. He came creepin’ outta that there flower bed this mornin’. He came round and saw that there thing on your step and went nuts.” “The skunk?” I was in total shock. “What else do you think I’m talkin’ bout, honey? Of course the skunk! Damn think was so scared of that there statue deal uh yours he was ready to brawl. Finally sprayed it and waddled off down yonder.” He’s got to be kidding. “The skunk sprayed my gargoyle?” I asked, even though I already could smell the answer. “The skunk sprayed whatever that thing is,” he said, then sat back and howled in only the way an old man can laugh. Hmmm. Now what? I’d heard of different methods to remove skunk smell from dogs and wayward hunters, but I had no idea where to begin with stone. I tightened my robe and looked up at the morning sunlight peeking through the tree leaves. I thought about the weekend that lay ahead… The adventure, apparently, had already begun.


 * "Forgotten Prose"**
 * by Wendy Graber**

I was laying next to my daughter, gently rubbing her back and waiting for her to go to sleep so I could sneak back into my own bed. It’s a habit I started during the first nine days of life in the NICU. I was not allowed to hold my newborn; she had great difficulty breathing on her own and had to remain in the small incubator. Only the two holes on the side of the plastic dome granted me access to her tiny, four-pound, premature body, so I took advantage of them. Thus began these nightly backrubs that lull my Mallory to sleep. Each breath she takes, I feel through the soft skin of her bare back. Up, down, up, down, up, down. It was at this precise moment when I thought of something really //great// to write about. It wasn’t my usual comic episode about some unreal, it-only-happens-to-me moment of my life, but something more profound. This idea had what critics (and writing instructors) call “substance.” I didn’t want to lose the thought; I even had the first paragraph mapped out in my mind, so I left the comfort and solace of my daughter’s warm body and steady heartbeat for my pad and pen. Now here I am, poised and ready, and I can’t remember a blasted think I had in mind. I’m sure it was good; probably brilliant for that matter. I always have the best ideas before I nod off to sleep. But brilliance had left my brain, just as I had left my daughter to her dreams without motherly arms draped over her. What’s a writer to do? Frustrated, I crawl into my own bed and pull up the covers. Hoping to recall those lost words as sleep envelopes me, I remember nothing but the feel of my daughter’s soft back and the beating of her heart.

Forever Teacher By T. Rose

Some people are in your heart forever. Mrs. Smith was a first grade teacher that knew how to connect with her students. I remember the first time I saw her. She was young, beautiful and enthusiastic! As she smiled and glanced down at me I knew instantly she could see inside me. Being painfully shy was a burden. I didn’t have the skills to rise above the rush of panic that easily overwhelmed my small body. Trying to survive day after day by being a wallflower was all I knew. Mrs. Smith was the first person to allow me the luxury of being who I was on the inside. No need to hide from her. No need to be scared of being wrong. //“Mistakes are great tools for learning,”// she would smile as she persuasively said this phrase throughout the year. Often she would proudly tell me //“Miss T. I am so glad you are in my class. I need you here everyday. If someone did not make mistakes I would have no one to teach. **Thank you** for letting me be your teacher.”// That became a new concept for me. **//“My teacher needed me?”//** I was convinced no one needed me. I was a problem child. I had been told this repeatedly. WOW! Mrs. Smith needed me! This was a new day – full of hope and love. It took a perceptive and open-minded person to understand with whom she was dealing. Mrs. Smith was that and so much more. I had never felt so much warmth and empathy from another human being. She nurtured this shy little child the way a gardener tends to the most fragile of flowers. She spent time listening to me talk about anything I cared to discuss. //“I will love you, forever, Teacher!”// Those words poured out as often as I could dispense them. Eventually she brought out the performer in me. I was little Robin Red Breast in the first grade spring play. I flew around, singing //“When the red, red robin goes bob, bob, bobbin’ along, alonnnnng…”// on that stage like I was something special. After the performance she tightly squeezed me and gushed the words I will never forget. //“I am so impressed! You have made me very proud to be your teacher. Thank you for being the best Robin Red Breast I have ever seen!”// Those words lifted my spirit to a new plateau. The rest of the year was spent trying to prove I was worthy of such praise. It changed my life. She believed in me. I will never forget the way she made me feel connected to her. That feeling of connectedness is how I see my role as a second grade teacher. I try to understand the child on the inside. It is not an easy task sometimes for they have built thick walls to protect themselves. I want to make a difference and reach all of them. Their drawings and love notes help me know I doing something right. There’s another way I know I’m making a difference in my student’s lives. I am fortunate – many former students, now adults, visit me on a regular basis. They always talk to my current students about being a good student. //“If you listen she will teach you everything because she cares about you.”// It makes me blush. I also get to hear, in vivid detail, the twists and turns their lives have taken. I am lucky they share. Just before they leave they tell me that when they were in my class I made them feel important. Then I get a smile, a bear hug, and an “I love you, forever. You’re my favorite teacher!” It is at that moment I realize that Mrs. Smith is here with me. She is in my heart guiding me to touch the lives of children in a substantial, beneficial, and influential way. Mrs. Smith will be forever in my heart. “//I love you, forever, Teacher... forever//.”

Summer of 2007: The Gas Grill By Jeff H. Roper Imagine Clark Griswold grilling steaks on a gas grill. That’s me. I’m luck when I don’t burn down the entire neighborhood. The opening of summer grilling season began for me in mid-June. It had rained so much in late spring in Kansas that it wasn’t until the middle of June that I even thought of outdoor grilling. I went to the local Dillons and purchased two perfect grilling steaks. My mouth was watering even as I picked them out of the cold open freezer. I went home and attempted to light the grill. Unfortunately, nothing came on and so I lifted the propane container enough to realize that it was empty. I returned the empty container to Dillons, but much to my chagrin they informed me that they had run out of replacement containers. They told me to go to another Dillons to get one. It seemed that everyone in Andover had already beaten me to the punch. So, I went to another Dillons at Central and Rock Road to retrieve a “Blue Rhino” propane container. Where do people come up with names like that? I always picture rhinos as gray or brown living in Africa and covered with mud or dirt on their skin. Did some wayward rhino travel up into the Middle East and then up to Turkey in the middle of an ice storm in the dead of winter and become a “blue” rhino. Probably not. What’s further troublesome about the term is the verbal irony of blue. Wouldn’t it be better to call it a “red” or “orange” or “yellow” rhino representing warmth or heat---after all the gas grill heats up and cooks the meat, not freezing it. I digress. Back to the story. It had been a year since I had started up my gas grill. I may have forgotten the steps. I grabbed a picnic napkin and rolled it up. I grabbed a book of matches. I turned the propane tank knob to fully on. Then—this was the problematic step—I turned on the two “on” knobs on the grill itself. Next, I struck the match and attempted to light the napkin, but then the whole grill lit up in an explosive-like manner and singed the little hairs on the back of my left-hand. Didn’t hurt, just scared the bejeebers out of me. After defrosting the steaks, I set the temperature where I wanted it. Every 4-5 minutes I returned outside to flip the steaks. Oh, that smell! The fresh smell of steaks grilling for the first time on your own grill at the beginning of summer! Is there anything more heavenly? As the steaks cooked, I noticed my seven-year old chocolate brown lab, Charlie Brown, lingering under the gas grill licking up any steak juice he could find as it dripped onto the back deck. He reminded me that I needed to find the silver cup that is supposed to attach to the bottom of the grill to catch the juice droppings. Apparently, Charlie stayed under the hot grill in the exact same spot for too long, thus creating a burn spot on the top of his head. (On a side note: two days later I had to take him to the vet and get antibiotics for him, creams, ointments, antiseptic wipes—we shaved much of the top of his head—bottom line was that the visit cost me $250.00). Vicky came home at 6:30pm. We had salad, bread, brussel sprouts, and two steaks costing $250.00 as Charlie watched painfully through the sliding glass door scratching his head.

The Hold Up by Linda Jackson

God knew what he was doing when he gave me Kip as my second child. If he had come first, there would have been no more! Did he ever sleep? No, he relaxed and slept only in our bed, between us. Did he walk? No, he ran, looking backward so that he ran into everything. Did he talk? No, he had his own language and had to go to the West Texas Rehabilitation Center to learn to speak English. What a child! Kip had just celebrated his 4th birthday and his grandparents had given him red cowboy boots, a red cowboy hat and a red gun holster that held two shiny toy guns. Needless to say, these were his favorites out of all the gifts. He wore them everywhere, even to church. I had a hard time getting him out of the gear to take a bath. He even slept in them. Since we lived in the country and a dairy was one of the farms down our gravel road, a big eighteen-wheeler milk truck would roar down our road, pluming up dust and spraying gravel in all directions. Kip was fascinated by that truck and wanted to run and see it every time it came down our road. Since the milk pick up happened several times a week I would try and have Kip inside or be supervising him outside when the truck came down our road because of his no-fear attitude about life. I was loading the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, Kip was getting dressed, our daughter was off to school on the bus, and my husband was off to work. It seemed like a normal, everyday kind of morning until I heard the hissing of airbrakes, gravel scrunching, and a blast of a horn! In an instant I knew that Kip was on that road!! I started running for the front door and arrived just in time to see the hold up! There was Kip naked as the day he was born except for the red cowboy boots, red cowboy hat, and two gun holster drawing a bead on that truck! His tan little arms, hands gripping the two shiny guns, resolutely standing firm; the truck was going down! Kip must have been lying in wait because the driver had seen him from quite a ways off and had begun to brake. That truck driver thought it was hilarious, I had a few different thoughts and Kip had a red smack mark on his bare behind to match his cowboy gear. Kip did make it into adulthood, but his dad and I have always thought he had a special guardian angel. He still does. In fact, he probably has gone through quite a few.

The Good Life Mary Dohl July 13, 2007

Home for a relaxing weekend away from the demands of college life, I found myself a passenger in my father’s faded blue Chevy truck. Our destination was the milo field at the far end of the fields that were bordered by the river. The dirt road over which we traveled was scarred with deep ruts that caused us to pitch to and fro inside the cab. The old seats had cushions that were threadbare in places and the worn springs under them no longer helped aid in the comfort of our ride. The bite of the late fall frosts had left its mark on the patches of earth on either side of us. The pasture grass, once an emerald, was now the color of butterscotch. The dried vegetation crackled beneath the hooves of the black Angus cattle as they lazily drifted along ripping out mouthfuls of forage. Weathered stone posts stood as unyielding sentinels around the meadow supporting heavily barbed wire.

We bumped long past the trees that lined the river banks The sycamore, elm, ash, oak, and cottonwood trees, arrayed in hues of yellow, orange, and brown, afforded a breathtaking sight. . Some of them, once adorned in rich fall finery, were now carelessly casting off their leaves creating a blanket on the ground below. The trees nearest the road were admirable not only for their beauty, but also for their amazing growth. Through the years, sturdy young saplings had matured and stretched lofty branches ever further through the air. Then they bent low becoming obstacles in the narrow road. Consequently, farm vehicles gave way to the trees and claimed the edges of the fields as their new passageway.

We rounded a curve that followed a bend in the river and before us laid a vast rusty-red sea of ripened milo. At one end of the field the combine rested, looming like a great green giant over the drying grain stalks. Its sickles were frozen teasingly just below the heads of the plants.

While Dad gave the combine a look-over, greased zerks, checked the air filter, and adjusted the chains for tightness I surveyed the area around us. I noticed the weeding implement parked on a grassy patch just off the road and was reminded of my experience as a field hand during the summer. I could almost feel the fiery rays of the sun once again that had engulfed me in their warmth. I saw in my mind’s eye the small twisters that had playfully whirled from one end of the field to the other, often including me in their games. They played rough, flinging dirt in my eyes and, when catching me off guard, snatching my straw hat from my head and tossing it to the ground some distance away. It was quite easy to be caught unawares while working the fields. There were many interesting sights to observe, mysteries to ponder, and ways to entertain myself. Often, something in nature presented itself to me. I’d notice a small bug scurrying to get out of the path of my growling tractor and I’d ponder what the lifespan of the tiny creature was, how it spent its day, and if it had family waiting for it to return home. I’d observe hawks circling over the fields and wonder what poor creature would be their next meal. I’d mark the progress of the sun and try to guess what time it was before checking my watch. At other times, I’d sing the lyrics of all the musicals and albums I had memorized.

Next, a narrow strip of now neglected land along the river bank evoked memories of earlier times. It had once been our potato patch. Planting potatoes around St. Patrick’s Day was a rite of spring in our family. I remembered the matched team of old gray work horses that were enormous and powerful. Their huge hooves stepped surely as they dragged the plow that sliced the earth open in even rows. We eagerly grabbed our gunny sacks. Our hands soon turned grubby as we reached into the bags for recently quartered starchy, wet potatoes and dropped them into the furrows. Then, ever so gently, our small feet pressed them into the sandy soil. Finally, the horses were hitched up to the harrow which spread the soil evenly over the top of the patch. I recalled too, the excitement we had felt a few months later as the first forkful of potatoes was turned over and our hands brushed away the loose dirt that clung to them.

I looked to the opening we’d used to access the river below. The slope there had been gradual enough to allow us to descend the river bank to our favorite fishing spot. I had sat there with my dad waiting for a Saline River catfish to grab my bait. I remembered how silently we had waited on those fish while hearing only the gentle burbling water, the steady whir-whir of locusts in the trees above, and the occasional haunting almost human cry of peacocks that lived on our neighbor’s property to provide nature’s symphony.

Suddenly the combine came to life with a chugging sound. Then the auger was spinning and round, rust-colored seeds were spilling into the bed of the truck. Dust from the grain was suspended in the air. My dad climbed down from the harvest monster and stepped up on the running board of the truck. He scooped up a handful of milo in his gnarled, work-worn hands and inspected it as carefully as a jeweler would examine a precious gem. As I observed his actions, I recognized the pride of a man who knew his job had been well done. His knowledge of the soil and the seed and God’s sustenance had produced a bountiful crop.

When the bed of the truck was loaded to the top of the sideboards, Dad shut down the engine of the combine. We climbed back into the cab of the old blue Chevy. Soon we were rocking along on the dirt road in the direction of the farm buildings. It had been a relatively short excursion, but I had caught a glimpse of what sustains a farmer against great odds. He achieves a unique communication with nature as he labors. Sometimes he’s working hand in hand with the elements, but at other times he is struggling against them. There are sleepless nights when drenching rains threaten sprouting seedlings. There are anxious afternoons when storm clouds gather and deliver hail to a field of ripening grain. Other years, the rains might refuse to fall and the tender leaves of the crops must endure effects of the scorching the sun. However, those trials are balanced by moments such as I’d witnessed on this day.

On this October day, I experienced an increased admiration for my father. The farm life had been our family life. Dad taught his children to appreciate nature in all of its forms. He often invited us to observe him as he worked. We’d take truck trips to check the water in a pasture pond, rides to the sale barn to sell a load of squealing hogs or bawling cattle, or early morning walks to the farrowing house to see the first litter of baby pigs. Sometimes, when most of the farm work was caught up, we’d pack a lunch and take a long walk to explore the creek bed. He taught us about the beauty of nature as well as the merits of hard work. His constant efforts made sure that his family would be able to experience “the good life.”

Wendy Graber
 * Cafe at Night**

The last time I saw the old man was at La Balise, an ancient little cafe on Rue Ponce de Elon, which had more seating outside ranther than in. It was very late, and the host was busy trying to shoo away the last of the lingering patrons. There was no traffic, only the sound of someone's high-heeled shoes clopping quickly down the cobblestone street. The sky was clear; the stars bright enough that the old oil lamplights were not necessary to illuminate the darkened walkways. But the air was humid and heavy; a fierce storm was no doubt headed towards the sleepy little village. I watched as the old man stood to put on his jacket, a light tan canvas-looking thing that must have been as old as he was. He held a half-smoked cigarette between his lips as he fumbled with the jacket buttons. I remember watching as the smoke formed a halo above his head. Had I known that this would be the last moment I shared with him, I might have asked him to sit down for just a minute more, and may have tried to pursuade the tired waiter for one more cup of coffee before leaving us on the dark patio. But instead I simply watched in silence as the old man pulled a few wrinkled bills from a cracked leather pouch and tossed them on the table. He returned the pouch to the front pocket of his saggy kakhi-colored pants and looked at me. "You have your father's eyes," he said to me. "They remind me of his mother." I tried to smile, but the sadness in his voice kept my mouth in an expressionless straight line. "Thank you for the late supper," I said. "I've missed this relaxing way of life." "You don't have to return to the city, you know. That was your own choice." He hesitated a moment, then said, "Well, I'm tired. It's way too late for this old man to be out." He patted my head and gently squeezed my shoulder. I held his craggly hand there for just a brief second. Wordlessly, he turned around and padded slowly into the night. "I love you!" I turned to say, but my grandfather had already turned the corner. I waited a few more minutes before I picked up my purse and headed towards the station for the final train to the city.

Gerri Hilger || Paul and I had gone on a little weekend get-a-way to the Ozarks. Considering we had four children ages 4--8, we really needed this time. Saturday evening we were at a Tudor style pub. A fire crackled in the fireplace, quiet, romantic music played in the background and I ordered a Hop-Skip and Go Naked. The waiter rather loudly asked me to repeat the order, which I did just as there was a break in the music. Immediately heads of all patrons close to me turned my way. Then, the waiter a little too loudly gave the bartender my order. All of the "Cheers" regulars around the bar looked toward our table. Someone, probably Norm, wandered over and introduced himself to the little lady who ordered the drink with the fantastic name. Within minutes the music became much more lively and the atmosphere of this quiet Tudor pub transformed to resemble a honky tonk road house. I think everyone in the place experienced a delicious beverage with an sensual name. ||
 * **Hop Skip and Go Naked**
 * || Anyone who knows me, would say, given the topic "my favorite drink" I would write about iced tea. I am addicted to this beverage and even can be seen carrying a glass into school on mornings when the thermometer dips to 0. However, when a friend told me to write about my favorite drink, Hop-Skip and Go Naked popped into my head. I don't know where I first heard of this beverage, probably in Vegas, but I do know whenever I try to order one, reactions of waiters and bartenders are consistently hilarious.

An Unwanted Walk

Rachael Warren

My feet feel like they have heavy shackles weighing them down. They match the feeling in my heart. A day that I can’t imagine, a day that I wish was just a nightmare is slowly unfolding before me. The large church is filled beyond capacity, and everyone sits in hushed silence. As my family waits in a large room in the back, ushers begin to come in and take the chairs we are sitting on into the sanctuary. Every chair has been used to squeeze everyone in; no one has to be escorted to an overflow room. “Probably a thousand people,” I hear whispered from the voices around me. My body feels very strange, as if I am having an outer body experience. While I am physically present, my mind and soul feel far, far away. I have been taking sleeping pills for the last five nights in hope that I will sleep for a few hours, and on that particular morning, I have taken and anti-anxiety pill. It helps, but I can still feel the immense sorrow rise up within me. No pill will ever take that away. “It’s time,” someone coaxes my family. My dad takes my hand and then takes the hand of my mom who stands on the other side of him, and the last person in our foursome is Cassie, my brother’s fiancée. When we walk into the church I can feel all eyes turn our way. The faces I see are just blurs, but I do catch a few eyes, and all I see are gazes of pity. It’s hard to move because I know everyone is looking at us, but there is no choice, so we trudge down the middle aisle. The same aisle that I should have been walking down in two months at the wedding of my brother, instead, is now the aisle that I walk down for his funeral. The same aisle that would have given us so much joy, is now a path of pain. After what seems like an endless journey we make it to the front pew. Falling down onto the bench, I immediately lean into my dad’s shoulder, and I hear Keith Urban’s song begin. The song that Cassie wanted played as she and Jake left the church when the wedding ceremony would have been over. I feel the tears come fast and hard. The tears that don’t seem to stop. The tears that seem to accompany me wherever I go.

Changing World Christine Davis-Lykins

She never thought she would be here. When she sat down and contemplated the last three years it was just surreal. Truly, it seemed as if she had been on autopilot with someone else plotting the course that she was blindly following. Bouncing off circumstances, bruised by invisible changing tides and stunned by sudden unannounced stops. It started seven years earlier on the way home from Colorado. Beth and her daughters stopped in Dodge City, Kansas to eat lunch at the local burger joint. It seemed okay. The food was the normal, greasy, unhealthy fare that was served at these hole in the wall restaurants. Life was good. Her mind was preoccupied with the excitement of beginning her new profession, teaching, when she returned home. Driving east, squinting at the slowly setting sun, suddenly something was not right. Beth broke into a cold sweat. Her stomach instantly knotted in such severe pain she had to pull over to the side of the highway. Beth was not a sickly person. Truthfully, she couldn’t remember the last time she had been ill. This was not just an illness, it was pain as intense as she had ever felt and it was not letting up. The girls were much too small to be of any help at all. Alisa, Beth’s eldest, began to ask questions to which Beth had no answers. She pulled back onto the highway, hoping to be able to make it home. This is stupid she thought to herself, “Dumb, dumb, dumb”. It had to be that hamburger. Food poisoning was the only thing that made any sense. Damn bad choice, stopping there but this wasn’t forever. Eventually as the meal digested it would fade and end. She would never in a million years have guessed that this was the beginning of an illness that would turn her world upside down. Years passed. Beth began teaching. She loved her job. The girls grew to be wonderful young women. Thomas, Beth’s husband, her high school sweetheart, was attending college and working a job he too loved. The family had recently moved into their dream house. Life was great; however, money was an issue, but when had it not been? Finally, after 15 years of marriage, Beth was happy and content with where her life was going. She occasionally would close her eyes and see herself and Thomas old and gray. In her mind she saw retirement, loving grandchildren and each other. School was about through for the year. Beth was coming home and going straight to bed. She was just exhausted and not feeling right. After several doctor visits with no answers, she no longer ran to the doctor when she wasn’t feeling right. IBD drugs, gall bladder surgery and colonoscopies all to no avail. Dr. Smith would just look at her and comment on sending her to a specialist but he never did. Everything he did would fix her for awhile but it never lasted. She had learned to just relax through the pain and deal with knowing where every bathroom in town was. Thomas was worried, so she down played the weariness. He just thought it had been a rough school year, and she never corrected him. What would it change? Nothing. May 28th was the last day of school with her 3rd graders. The city had passed a bond issue and it was her school’s turn for the make over. Everything had to be packed and labeled to be moved to her pre-lined space in the gym. The pain was worse today than it had ever been. She felt like crap; she saw that she was pale in the mirror. She asked her students to help, and they began ransacking the room. They began dumping crayons and textbooks into the cheap, brown cardboard boxes. The students were really making progress. She had to sit, rest and breathe. When it was all said and done, 152 boxes covered one wall. The boxes were towering and threatening to fall. Normally the controlling part of her personality would command her to fix the pile. Today she didn’t care. She dismissed the kids, feigned smiles, and faked that the world was great. Walking down the hall with the usual bounce in her step she was not making eye contact, afraid someone would notice the look behind her eyes. Beth went back to her classroom, grabbed her purse and snuck out the door early. Thomas met her at the door and in thoughtful celebration took Beth out to eat. She had to come clean. Over cucumber soars she spilled her guts about the pain, the blood and her lack of energy. Thomas told her that their next stop would be the emergency room. Beth balked and begged him just to take her home. Rest would fix everything. He grudgingly acquiesced. That had been Friday, and since then Alisa and Michelle had become Beth’s bed partners. They lay in bed, watched TV and played games not really understanding why wonder mom was on vacation. Memorial Day began for Beth with even more white knuckle pain. Thomas had finally had enough and helped Beth to the car. He paced in the emergency room where time seemed to stand still. Never before had the black pointed hands on a clock moved more slowly. Patience had never been one of Thomas’ most endearing qualities. Finally the nurse called Beth’s name. The pain was so excruciating that Beth could not answer any of the questions. Thomas filled in the young doctor with the details of Beth’s illness. She didn’t respond with the urgency Thomas felt the situation required. He told the doctor that they must help Beth. She needed to be admitted. Cautiously the doctor explained to Thomas that they could not admit Beth. Thomas didn’t understand, “You are a doctor, aren’t you?” he asked over and over. The wince Beth made as an IV port was inserted into the blue vein on the back of her hand quickly distracted Thomas away from his verbal assault. Morphine was dripping into the port and Beth’s pain subsided. She could feel her body begin to relax for the first time in days. After the examination the doctor reported that yes, blood was present and there could be two conclusions. One, no biggie, IBD drugs will control it or two; you had better pray this wasn’t it…ulcerative colitis. The doctor made sure that Thomas knew the name of the GI specialist that he was to contact first thing the next morning. He shrugged and helped Beth into the car a beaten man not in control, not able to help his wife the way he felt she needed help. Eight a.m. Tuesday morning the phone rang. Thomas did not have to call the specialist, he called them. The E.R. doctor had called extremely concerned about Beth’s condition stating that Beth needed to be seen immediately. Once again they piled into the car. Sitting in the waiting room Beth assured Thomas that she felt much better. When they entered the room, a frown crossed Dr. Dolan’s face. He did not like the pale, grave face he saw on what would have normally been a very happy, bubbly person. Then Beth’s least favorite part of any doctor’s appointment, the scope, it was embarrassing and painful. The room was silent, none of the normal friendly banter between doctor, nurse and patient. Beth was then left alone in her thin paper gown to change and meet her husband and doctor in the adjacent room. There was an eerie silence that made Beth shudder as she dressed. She realized she had failed at hiding how horrible she had been hurting. Now they would know. She had been brought up to suck it up. Being sick was something to be waved away as easily as a pesky insect on a warm summer’s day. She felt afraid and insecure. Entering the room, staring at Thomas, she sat silent. Dr.Dolan entered the room and announced that Beth needed to be admitted to the hospital today; yes, there was time to go home and pack he agreed hesitantly. The car ride home was filled with anxious tension. Beth packed making a mental list of what they needed to get at Wal-Mart on the way back to Wesley Regional Medical Center. Thomas stood silently. He was waiting for Beth to speak; only she said nothing. She was deep in thought, inside her own mind, being buried alive by her own thoughts. Back in the car on their way to Wal-Mart, Thomas reached out to hold Beth’s hand. He squeezed her hand and smiled a smile to let her know that everything was going to be ok. Too bad the feeling didn’t transfer. She shook inside and felt cold all of the way to her core. Walking into the hospital from the parking garage felt like a death march. Numb she felt numb all the way to her toes. She sat while Thomas talked to the admitting office attendant. On the wrist band went, seated then in a wheelchair against her pleading assurances that she could walk. She was fine, and she was not an invalid dammit. No one was listening. Left standing in the middle of a room with Thomas at her side, she was terrified. “You’re going to what?” Beth asked shaking her head to be agreeable but screaming inside, “I want to go home, I want to go home right now!” Mechanically she changed into sweat pants and a hospital gown. Lying in the bed, Thomas still at her side two people entered the room. They explained that they were there to put a pick line in. A pick line was inserted in the arm, threaded across her shoulder to her chest and into her heart. It was like a lead weight slamming onto every inch of her being. This was more serious than she first thought. Quickly, they swabbed her arm. She had to look away when the scalpel came out to begin the incision. The first nurse was in training. She was having issues, trying to make the line enter the arm. Seeing the silent tears sliding down Beth’s face, the more experienced nurse took over. Thomas held her other hand making small talk to help calm her nerves. Quietly, he whispered that he had to go to work. There wasn’t anyone to take his place. He would be back first thing in the morning. The girls, Alisa and Michelle were with Beth’s parents, so at least she didn’t have to worry about them. They would be scared. Pick line in, the nurses excused themselves. Thomas kissed Beth, squeezed her hand, mumbled some obscenities about having to leave and then walked out the door. Beth switched the TV on and tried to relax. The high dose of Lortab soon had her sleeping restfully. Two weeks went by; Beth was only being allowed to eat ice chips and popsicles. This was to rest her digestive system the doctor had said. Finally, released with prescription in hand, Thomas came to pick her up to take her home. The prednisone had caused a 50 pound weight gain. Beth would walk by the mirror in the hall and wonder who that woman in the reflection was. The realization that the image was indeed her would sink in. She would fall to the floor in tears knowing that the $800 a month prescription was no more effective than baby aspirin. Yes, it was ulcerative colitis. Yes, it was bad. Yes, it had been misdiagnosed for four year. Yes…she still hurt. On one of Beth’s better days she headed to Sedgwick to see her grandfather. He had Parkinson’s disease. It had gotten to the point where he had been moved to a nursing home. Her whole life he had been one of the strongest people Beth had ever known. Besides her grandmother, who had passed away eight years prior, Beth was the woman in her grandfather’s life. He had adored her since birth. He had always been there for her and now when she needed him the most, he had given up. He was refusing to eat, going out on his terms. She begged him to eat. He said that he was fine. He was secure in his decision, ready to leave his feeble body and mind behind. It killed her but, she respected him for taking charge of what was left of his life. She entered the room, and for some reason which she could not explain, immediately she called her uncle to tell him he needed to clear his calendar. Today was the day. Jerry came and Bill followed. They spent the day telling stories and holding his hand. When the final gasp of air came, Beth had to leave the room feeling sick. She didn’t want to tell her grandpa that she lied; it wasn’t ok that he go. She would not be fine without him. That day, in the middle of her awful summer, Beth lost the man she loved more than any other. Three days later, surrounded by family, Beth said her final goodbye. One week later Beth visited Dr. Dolan. With her mother-in-law in tow, she was told yet again to pack a bag and head to Wesley. It was more serious than before. Beth went home to pack a suitcase. Instead of the fear she felt on her first hospital stay, this time she was angry. She had too much to do to go sit in some hospital, more stupidity. The beginning of the school year was around the corner and Beth vowed that she would be there to set up her room on the very first day. That she would not allow this illness to impact her profession. It meant too much to her. Thomas came home and made the second trek to Wesley. He too was angry because he had to leave Beth to go to work that evening. Again the pick line was inserted. Dr. Dolan entered the room to explain that the treatment would be very aggressive. He would prescribe an old cancer drug that was successful in some cases. Lortab, prednisone and TPNs were again part of the daily routine. Beth settled in to make the best of the situation. She was still spending time in the bathroom and was bleeding worse than she wanted to let on. She had begun to help the housekeeper change her bedding. The housekeeper, Jena, was from Africa. Beth enjoyed her conversations, and Jena began stopping by during the day to see how Beth was. Some of the nurses also began to come to Beth’s room even when she wasn’t on their rounds. From the outside things seemed ok, but Beth knew better. Nothing was changing. Beth had started to lose some of her hair because of the cancer drugs. “Great” she thought, “Now I will be a bald cow.” Watching TV, CNN, there was a show about missing woman. It had become Beth’s obsession. Thinking that this beautiful young woman would be found gave her something to be hopeful about. It gave her something to focus on besides the four walls of her hospital room. She glanced away from the TV in time to see Thomas in the doorway. Not too far behind him sauntered in Dr. Dolan. He sat down next to Beth on the bed. No hello…nothing. He looked at Beth in the eye and said blatantly, “You are dying”. He too was aware that there had been no change. A total of a month and a week in the hospital had been spent in the hospital and nothing had changed in Beth’s condition. Actually she had gotten progressively worse. It was time for the surgery, the cure. Beth had already decided she was tired of the pain. The surgery, wow, she still had believed to the very end that this could be avoided, that the drugs would make everything better. Her mom and dad were called and they headed home from Colorado with the girls cutting their vacation short. Two days and Beth would be colonless, with the promise of a short term ileostomy. Three months and another surgery, less invasive, things would be back to normal. Today is the day. She was surprised that she felt so ready. This could be life changing but she faced this like she did everything else. She faced it with hope and a smile. Dr. Porter came in and introduced himself. He would be the one with the knife. He was easy going and nice to talk with. There was a young man at his side attentively listening to the conversation. Dr. Porter introduced the very attractive young man as his intern. “Wahoo, someone else to see me naked”, Beth thought. The nurses wandered in over the next hour or so to wish Beth luck. Men she had never seen before came in and transferred Beth to another bed and off they went. Waking in the recovery room, Dr. Porter told her that everything went according to plan. Her colon was one of the worst he had ever seen. It was just in pieces; no way that anything else would have fixed this. She faded in and out of consciousness, remembering very little until the next morning. The next week went by like clockwork. Beth’s dad called every ½ hour to make sure that she had been up walking. Walking was the best way to get the heck out of Dodge. Nurses had been coming in to empty the bag that now hung from Beth’s abdomen. She decided to bite the bullet, to learn to empty it on her own. After all, no one would be at home to do it. It would only be for three months, she could do anything for three months. She could deal with this in order to get a lifetime of no pain. One more day and she was out of there. She began to pack her bags to ready herself to go home. She dreamed of sleeping in her own bed. Staring out of the pane glass window, her only view the roof of the building next door, she slowly drifted to sleep. Freezing, it was so cold. Beth woke with her whole body shivering. Glancing at the clock it was 1:07 am. She hated to bug the nurse but she really needed a blanket. Kim, the night nurse, bounded into Beth’s room waving away Beth’s apology. Her entire body stopped when she saw Beth. Carefully, she tucked the warm cotton blanket around Beth’s body. Kim stood next to the bed for several minutes asking Beth questions about how she felt. She disappeared around the corner and returned with a thermometer. Beth was shaking so hard the thermometer shook between her teeth. 104 degrees…shit Kim mouthed as Beth began to fall in and out of consciousness. Her eyelids felt like cement but she knew she had to open them to see who the voices at her bedside belonged to. She could hear quick movements and hear snipits of grave conversations that started with her name. Finally her eyelids opened. She knew something was very wrong. Dr. Porter and his intern, the doc on call and Kim stood over her. More medical personnel entered and moved her onto a mobile bed. “Wait!” Beth screamed. No one had even called Thomas. She reached for the phone and when his weary voice answered she quietly said, “I don’t know what is going on but you need to come here now.” Waking in an unfamiliar room, Beth realized she had a tube in her nose, a big one; it must be an NG tube. She could not even lift her head from the thin pillow on which it was now resting. Looking toward the end of the bed she saw a sliding glass door and then there stood her family. This is not good she realized as she closed her eyes and drifted into a morphine coma. For the next 24 hours Beth drifted in and out of consciousness. There had been a blood clot. It had lodged in the artery leading to the newly constructed J-Pouch leaving the attached intestines dead and rotting in her body. She was septic. With this ugly turn in the road, the doctors were not sure that Beth would make it. When Beth awoke, she might as well have died. Blackness surrounded her. Nothing mattered anymore, not Thomas, not the girls, not work. Beth prayed for death. She cursed God for letting her live. She could not quite remember when she had realized that the bag would not go away. The drugs, the double surgeries had done their damage. Beth could not even walk down the hall. Family and friends watched a woman who always saw the glass as half full, smiled and talked incessantly and had loved life wither into a bitter, angry suicidal mess. Refusing to get out of bed, truthfully, Beth thought, “Screw everything and everyone.” Unaware that this manic depression was caused by the high level of steroids, she slipped further and further away. Multiple blood clots caused return visits to the hospital. Infection after infection left doctors with worried looks but no answers. The bags leaked. She was humiliated. She was so afraid that this would be her life. Beth returned to school on the report day for teachers. Unable to walk on her own, she wanted to control something and her classroom and students were hers. Quickly, quietly, and filled with compassion her principal told her she would not be allowed in the building without a doctor’s release. Beth melted into a ball of tears. Over the next three months Beth began to pull out of the dark abyss that had become her mental home. She returned to work earlier than she should have, but it gave her purpose and meaning. It was a place to hide. Her marriage ended after 18 years. Thomas could no longer take the pressure of a wife he could not help. He had turned to drugs and strangers to fill the hole that Beth had left by her emotional and physical distance. Sitting in the corner of her room, she cried. She cried for the loss of her body and mind. She felt like a freak. The surgeries had ravaged her body, steroids had left her swollen, and the cancer drugs has caused her long, naturally curly, blonde hair to fall out and clog the shower drain. To add insult to injury, were memory issues caused by numerous doses of anesthesia. Left alone to pick up the pieces with Thomas gone, she did just that. Beth was determined to fix what she could so the girls could return to as close to a “normal” life as she could provide them. Beth put on a happy face during the day and sobbed herself to sleep at night. Smothering her cries in a pillow so the girls wouldn’t hear, she still felt hopeless but did her best to hide it. She continually begged God to give her back the life she had once had. Not knowing what was worse, the bag or the loss of her soul mate. It has been three years this coming August since the second surgery. Only two years since Dr. Dolan finally said the ordeal was over and gave Beth a clean bill of health. Moving on has been hard for Beth. She is not the same person coming home from Colorado, stopping to have a burger. There are no wonderful nuggets of wisdom to impart as people so close to death often do. If she has learned one thing it is that she is blessed in a way that many people are not. She is blessed with friends and family who would drop anything in an instant to be by her side during her darkest hours, to tell her they love her and to help pick her up no matter how long the journey. She has learned to live by The Serenity Prayer, especially the second verse as it applies to living…

God grant me the Serenity, To accept things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom To know the difference.

Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardship as the Pathway to peace.

Taking, as He did, this sinful world As it is, not as I would have it; Trusting that He will make all things Right if I surrender to His will;

That I maybe reasonably happy In this life, And supremely happy with Him Forever in the next. -Reinhold Niebuhr

She keeps a journal. It is filled with memories that would not have been made had she given up:

Alisa's prom Michelle making varsity soccer Best friends wedding A Royals game Christmas with her grandparents Sailing at midnight under the full moon

And there is a hope of love and happiness. Someday a life reclaimed and enjoyed.

By Gerri Hilger**
 * Tales of 1st Grade Shenanigans (Andrew, please center title & name)

Reading from the book A Day No Pigs Would Die brought to mind taking home my first report card in 1st Grade. We did not have kindergarten “back in the day” so this was my parent’s first insight into how others view their daughter. I remember being so proud of all those As in phonics and arithmetic and reading and anything else 1st grade received marks in. However, when my parents saw the C in conduct, all the As grew wings and flew out the window. I was told in no uncertain terms that if I ever brought home less than an A in conduct again, I wouldn’t sit down for a week. I couldn’t understand all the hullabaloo. Conduct wasn’t even listed with everything else---it was on the back of the card so it couldn’t be very important. “What does conduct mean anyway?” I was soon educated about the definition, and the fact that all the As in the world did not mean anything if I could not behave myself. Being the oldest girl (2nd oldest of 12 kids) my job at home was often to keep the little ones in line, and keep them entertained. I guess I had taken that job to school with no appreciation from a fledging teacher. One of my friends and I were always competing about who was the best. The incident that I remember most which must have earned the C was the day we decided to have a contest. Our teacher was out of the room teaching music to the 7th and 8th grade while about 30 1st graders were left to our own devices. The fact that we knew that the principal was down the hall and would be checking in from time to time was supposed to keep us in line. (Can you imagine that happening today?) Anyway our choice of weapons was gymnastics---such as 1st graders in a rural community knew them. 1st we did summersaults to the cheers of our classmates. I am sure this brought Sister Agatha’s attention. By the time she arrived to our room, she was greeted with the legs of 2 little girls flaying in the air with pink panties flashing the class as Joyce and I practiced standing on our heads---as the skirts of our dresses fell down over those heads. Or perhaps I received a C because of Jimmy Lies. He was a big 6th grader, and for some reason, for me, it was love at first sight. My heart ached as only a heart can ache when attacked with 1st love. Someone must have known about my love---I have no idea how! But I vaguely remember being dared to kiss Jimmy during a performance of some type. With no fear of repercussion, I marched over to where Jimmy sat with his friends, climbed up on his lap and shared my unrequited love with 1st grade enthusiasm. Poor Jimmy must have been mortified and was probably teased unmercifully by his buddies. Twelve years later, Jimmy had returned from med school at the same time that I took a break from college studies between spring and summer sessions began. Jim had finally matured to my 1st grade level of love. We enjoyed dating, mostly long distance for about a year, before deciding to end the love affair which had begun for me about 15 years earlier.

Shirleen Augustine**
 * Writing Prompt

Choose a characteristic or topic in your life. How would it be affected if you gave it one more degree effort?

212 Degrees

Love/Support

I have a good marriage and a good husband. Could I put my extra degree into making it great? For the past 28 years, we have put our efforts into our children. Finally, they have all graduated from high school. We are the empty nesters. My husband, who has taken the back seat for so many years, now deserves to be a major focus. It is the little extras that make a difference.

The offer of a back rub while we’re watching a movie. The cold drink, and the offer to do a few rounds of mowing, on a hot afternoon. Would you like some help? Could I do that for you? The extra pat on the back when he’s gone out of his way for the kids or me. The whistle to let him know how great he looks when he’s in his 4th degree tux— or just on an every day morning. To give a listening ear when he wants to talk about “his” day. The extra encouragement when he’s frustrated. To cook his favorite dish every once in a while. To watch a round of golf, a football game, or a NASCAR race without complaining, griping, or asking stupid questions. To let him choose the TV channel and to not moan when his choice, once again, is Walker Texas Ranger.

All of these are tiny things. Tiny little degrees that can add up to so much.

It’s an odd expression. . . “I lost my dad.” It hadn’t sounded odd when others said it; now it sounds both strange and foreign. My father passed away last winter. After stumbling through the next four cold, lonely months, I found myself. . . lost. Nothing seems real anymore; my life will never by the same.
 * LOST--Marilyn Darnell** (ANDREW...PLEASE INDENT PARAGRAPHS, PLEASE INSERT AND CENTER 3 ASTERISKS AFTER PARAGRAPHS 6 &7, PLEASE ITALICIZE THE 3 LINES THAT ARE BOLDED IN THE LAST FULL PARAGRAPH, AND PLEASE CENTER THE LAST LINE--THANK YOU)

Dad hadn’t been well for some time, so the doctors admitted him to the county hospital in September; his visit there lasted nearly two weeks. Those were long, difficult weeks for him, for us, and for the medical staff. “Damnit!! I want to go home!” he complained to us. “Get the hell away from me!” he barked at the nurses. Dad detested hospitals, doctors, nurses, needles, and all the rest of the trappings we were told were mandatory for my father’s “getting better.” Trying to coax him to eat something, drink something, and swallow the pills the nurses demanded he take became a herculean task. Most of the time we lost those battles, but we continued to cajole and beg and bribe with optimistic hopes of his coming home. After Dad refused to cooperate with the physical therapist, Medicare terminated further funding for his care; so, weary and battle-scarred, we left, wheeling Dad through the maze of those cold, white, sterile hospital halls. We had known for some time that Dad suffered from Alzheimer's, but after all the tests came in, we discovered he also was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, a gall bladder problem, a cyst on his ‘working’ kidney, and an abdominal aneurism. What in the world could we hope for now?

October came. The leaves dropped in colorful patches of oranges, reds, browns, and green-golds; the lawn looked like a tumble of quilts. Beautiful, brisk sunny-cool days they were--but Dad didn’t know it. That saddened us because he loved the outdoors. This was the season he would normally be watching a granddaughter play volleyball and a grandson play football. This was the time of year he would normally drive out to the farm to “check the cows” (which translated means, “I’m going to feed molasses pellets to my girls!” Watching his girls, all of whom had names, circle around Dad was a hoot!--partially because he’d stand and hand feed them, and partially because it was like watching a herd of winded, overweight women jostling to get Brad Pitt autograph)! Once the pellets were gone, Dad turned to spoil the farm cats; they loved to sit in his lap to be petted or scratched behind their ears or on the hinge of their tails. Dad was a strong man, but he turned to mush when it came to animals; sometimes I think he loved animals as much, if not more, than he loved people and life. If not for WW II, he had planned to go to college to be a veterinarian--at least that was his expectation. Expectations? Plans? Normalcy? I wondered if any of those words would ever be a part of our vocabularies--or our lives--ever again.

The whole family was together in November, but I don’t remember Thanksgiving very well. I guess we all just went through the motions. “Want some noodles and mashed potatoes, Pops?” He nodded. Dad wasn’t talking much by then and was able to walk only with help. He still joked a little and grinned when we teased him; he’d always had a good sense of humor. For years we razzed Dad about the voluptuous Blondie Kay, (a sometime-long-ago flame he’d met in New York during the war when he was on leave). She was a picture--at least that is how we kids knew her. We’d peek in Dad’s navy locker when he opened it to retrieve some ‘important’ paper. Even though Dad was not aware of what was happening in the present, he could still recall much of the past., so we joked with him about his “Blonde Bomb”; he’d grin at hearing her name, and we felt better for it because we had shared something that was comfortable and familiar; life felt normal and good once again.

Mom had not planned to put up a tree for the holidays, but one of my sisters found a small pink Christmas tree (yes, pink!!) AND a matching pink wreath for the picture window; though skeptical about decorating for the holidays, mom acquiesced. She was tired and depressed, lonely and lost from watching Dad, day-by-day, fade away from her. Little else was on her mind. Both the tree and the wreath came with built-in lights so putting it up was easy. At this point in time ‘easy’ was good; we had spent so much time on ‘hard’ that we had no energy left, so... the shy little tree stood bravely in my parents’ picture window--bright and hopeful. For some reason, however, it seemed out of place--perhaps because it was too pink and too happy, or perhaps because it disrupted our sad, little world. Sometimes, when life becomes difficult, it is impossible to remember there is a bigger world. Nevertheless, it was reality check time!! We had nieces and nephews, grandkids, and great-grandkids coming, so we had no choice but to ‘gear up.’ As the weeks passed, we could even smile at the little tree; and, eventually, we even welcomed it. But, best of all, we still had Dad, and we were thankful for that gift. And then an odd thing happened. A stranger came knocking at the door. He looked familiar, but we could not recall his name. . . nor could we quite recognize the face. Apparently, he intended to stay awhile, which resulted in a significant amount of awkward foot-shuffling and throat clearing for us; after all, he had not been invited. All too soon, however, we realized who this unwelcome stranger was, for he had visited my family many times before.

Sometimes death is quick and merciful. . . and sometimes he is taunting and cruel. Death decided to play with my dad. He picked my father up in his arms and danced him across the few days that were left to him; we no longer considered those days “gifts.” I don’t want to dance!! Leave me alone!! But death doesn’t listen; he doesn’t care what anyone wants, so he whirled Dad around and around, and tossed him about like a rag doll. We stood by, unwilling spectators/voyeurs--not wanting to watch. . .but having to watch. We stand outside the window observing the moves: the slides, the dips, the spins. Our heads whirl and our eyes can’t focus when we try to open them and we. . . just. . . want. . . everything. . . to stop!! To please stop. We pray to God, “Please let him lie down and rest,” and we plead with death, “Please just let him catch his breath.” But death won’t stop, can’t stop, and we can’t change anything because. . . we have. . . no. . . control. It is three o’clock in the morning. The eldest daughter walks into her father’s bedroom--a habit--to check to see if he is ok, or to ask if he needs anything. She reaches out and touches his hand; it is the hand she’s known forever. . . the hand that spanked, that held tiny hands, that loved, that worked, that guided. It is a calloused hand; the fingers are bent with arthritis. She takes his hand and hold it in hers, and it is warm, and she is relieved. But then the shadow of doubt creeps in and drapes itself around her, so she checks for the pulse but she can’t find one. Frantic and afraid, she whispers, “Dad? Dad!! Are you ok? Can you hear me??” But there is no response and she panics because, **“This just cannot be happening!”** --so she bends over and puts an ear on her father’s chest but there is no heartbeat ! And she leans over and puts her ear close to his mouth, trying to feel even the tiniest sigh, waiting to hear whether he is breathing. . . or not. Holding her breath, she listens and prays. “**Please, God, let him breathe!”**--and she closes her eyes and listens harder, **“Please, God! Please!”** And she listens yet again, still holding her breath for what seems forever, and then. . . and then after forever,. . . he exhales,. . . for the last time.

I am lost; my life will never be the same.

(ANDREW: PLEASE PARAGRAPH)

By Sandy Foster
My mother didn’t prepare me for this time in my life, that of having an empty nest, and no words are adequate to describe it. What was once a fantasy of “me time” has transpired into an empty void. My husband and children have been the stabilizing force in my life for 27 years. With four children spanning eight years, there was never time to be anything but tenacious no matter the situation, at least in front of the children. Besides, who has time to be manic-depressive when you have children to feed, games to attend, and a taxi service to maintain in your spare time?

My main focus has been raising children. I’m not saying I was super mom; my children would be the first to roll with laughter at that idea. Too many fend-for-yourself meals are still too fresh on their minds. But from the time the first child was born, our purpose for working – for living – has been to raise well-adjusted, smart, caring individuals who would some day go to college and become self-supporting adults contributing their talents to the world. The topic of nearly every conversation in my adult life usually found its way back to my children.

Never was there a question that some day they’d attend college. When we moved Number One to her out-of-town apartment three hours away, I thought I was ready. After all, this self-assured, well-adjusted oldest child seemed more than ready to be out of the house and on her own. But both my husband and I cried when we left her in her new apartment that day. Had we prepared her well? Would she need us anymore?

The departures of the next two children proved easier, perhaps because we knew what to expect and had mentally prepared ourselves. (And we learned from Number One that they would still need us, or at least some of our money!) But having only one teenager in the house seemed strange. For two years I tried to ready myself for the inevitable. Soon he would be leaving, and we would have the house to ourselves: no worry about the girlfriend walking in on us as we sat watching TV half clothed (or less); no cooking meals for the entire football team sleepovers (though I must admit, I relished those late-night smorgasbords); no late-night lectures over missed curfews. The house would be all ours – all five bedrooms, spacious kitchen, and expansive living room.

Never did I dream that when the last child left home, I would dissolve into a sniveling idiot incapable of controlling my emotions at every how-are-you greeting. There seems to be no logic to these sudden uncontrollable urges to sob. I was so ready for this, wasn’t I? Perhaps not. I always knew it would be a bittersweet time, but no one prepared me for this feeling that I’ve been sucker-punched and left gasping for air. What is happening to me? Have I lost my mind? The days begin like any other as I think about the myriad of tasks I need to accomplish as I begin another year of teaching. Then the next minute, for no apparent reason, the tears are streaming down my face. It angers me that I can’t seem to get control of this. Perhaps it’s the innate need to be needed, and I fear no one really needs me anymore. Despite reassurances from well-meaning friends who have waltzed through this stage of their lives into relaxed, happy grand-parenting, I find myself tripping, tumbling, falling into this suffocating passageway somewhere between motherhood and retirement, and I can’t seem to find my way out. I can neither turn back to what is familiar, nor can I see the light at the end of this corridor.

With my husband entering another busy season of corn harvest and wheat planting, his days are long and mine unbearably lonely. I’ve already had more “me time” in the past few weeks than I can handle. You’d think after 27 years of being Mom to four normal, active, bickering children that I would relish these days of quiet solitude. But in the stillness, it has become increasingly evident that life as I’ve known it for the past 27 years is over. The familiar is gone. The future I should have been preparing for is here, ready or not. And I’m not. Emptiness engulfs me.

Maybe my focus needs to shift outward from my children to my spouse. Lord only knows that relationship has been put on the back burner for most of our married life. I guess I fear that we’ll discover it takes more than a great sex life to make a marriage work. (We’ve obviously done well in that area; hence, the four children!) What I’ve always been content to believe, and maybe have taken for granted, is the idea that we’d grow old together, enjoying our post-children years to retirement and beyond. But we can’t even have a conversation without mentioning at least one of the kids, and lately, that’s all it takes to open the floodgates again.

Who is this man I married, besides the father of our children? He surely must be wondering the same thing about me: just who is this blubbering woman, anyway? After 28 years of marriage, I think I know his interests and dreams. He, at least, has maintained active friendships and interests beyond the job and home. On the other hand, my only friendships these days are with co-workers, and we seldom socialize outside the work environment. My interests in writing and publishing have not been cultivated for lack of time. I laughed at the Sonic commercial where the two guys receive their orders and one says, “I have to tell all my friends about this.” The other one replies, “I think you just did.” Now that the empty nest syndrome has hit home, that commercial is not nearly so funny. In fact, it, too, can trigger more tears.

What have I done to myself? I’ve neglected friendships; I’ve neglected my spouse and my siblings; and, in hindsight, I’ve neglected myself. Now I must come face to face with the brutal realization that I don’t know who I am as a person other than as a mom and a teacher. My oldest daughter, rolling her eyes, once quipped, “Mom, get a life.” I guess I should finally take her advice. But where does one begin? After all, my children have been my life. It’s what I know.

There are a number of organizations that would welcome volunteers, and I know many people whose needs far outweigh my own. My head tells me I should focus on serving others. My heart has been too troubled to follow through. Last Sunday in church I glanced up after the pastoral prayer and my eyes landed on a recent widow sitting several rows ahead of me. I was overwhelmed with this sudden feeling of guilt for wallowing in this cloud of self-pity. At least I still have someone who will be coming home tonight after being in the field all day. I still have someone to practice new recipes on and someone who will keep me warm through the cold winter nights ahead.

Maybe I should make a top ten list of the things I’ve put off doing for lack of time. Then by the time I get down to number one, perhaps I will have found that light at the end of this passageway.

My Top Ten List Number 10: Get my annual dental checkup that’s years overdue. Number 9: Plant new grass and actually water it so it will grow. Number 8: Schedule that recommended colonoscopy. Number 7: Follow through on that Bible study. Number 6: Paint the interior of the house. Number 5: Clean out the closets and have a garage sale. Number 4: Learn to use a Blog for classroom use. Number 3: Host a mid-life crisis coffee for friends I haven’t seen in a while. Number 2: Visit my grandson and new granddaughter more often. Number One: Write for publication.

(ANDREW: PLEASE INDENT PARAGRAPHs)

By Sandy Foster
“You two can’t move that piano by yourselves. Just wait and I’ll find some of the guys to help me one of these nights after work,” my husband, David had said weeks earlier. Now, nearing the end of spring break, the irreparable piano with its missing keys still gathered dust in the very spot I envisioned a china cabinet.

“Let’s just roll it right out the back door onto the bed of Dad’s truck,” suggested Farrah, my college-aged daughter, who shared my stubborn streak when told we couldn’t do something. The idea seemed like a workable plan, in theory, but when the old blue truck wouldn’t start in order for us to back it up to the door, we were forced to devise Plan B.

“I know! We’ll remove this piece that the music rests against and use it as a ramp to roll the piano down these two steps into the family room. Then we can roll it out the sliding glass doors onto the patio where Dad can haul it off with the loader.” Another smart idea – in theory! With Farrah standing on the top step and I in the family room two steps lower, we slowly guided the piano down the makeshift ramp.

“This is going to be a breeze,” boasted Farrah.

“Yeah, and Dad said we couldn’t do it. I guess we’ll show him, won’t we?” I laughed.

“Wait! This wheel is hung up on the board. I think I can lift this end just enough to get it rolling again,” grunted Farrah. Suddenly the 800-pound piano began to tip toward me. A table and a lamp blocked my escape route from behind, and I watched it fall as if in slow motion. With nowhere to turn, all I could do was push with all my strength in hopes Farrah was doing the same on her end.

But the old oak upright crashed heavily to the floor, pinning me beneath it. One corner rested on the bottom step, creating just enough space for me to attempt an escape.

“Oh, my gosh, Mom! Are you all right?” screamed Farrah as I twisted my leg and wormed my way free. She helped me to stand, and I hobbled around gingerly, unable to put weight on that leg. “Is it broken? We’d better get you to the hospital!”

“No, I don’t think so. Oh, I don’t know,” I whimpered, limping to the bedroom and collapsing on the bed. “Just get me a cold rag for now,” I ordered, and I pulled shorts from my dresser drawer knowing that if I didn’t get these jeans off soon, someone would probably have to cut them off later. “Here, pull on this pant leg…be careful!” I groaned.

“Oh, God!” gasped Farrah, handing me the wet cloth and taking a good look at my crushed calf. I promptly placed the rag on my eyes and forehead, afraid to look at the injured leg. “We need to get you to the hospital,” repeated Farrah.

“Just let me put this cold rag on it first,” I said. Then I looked at my leg and gasped. Grossly misshapen and already turning purple, my calf bore the impress of the top edge of the piano all the way down to the bone. My leg looked like all the muscle and tissue had been shoved down around my ankle. “Maybe I had better have it ex-rayed,” I agreed. So she helped me hobble back into the family room as my thoughts focused on how many times I would have to listen to David saying "I told you so" and dreading having to explain this on the emergency room report.

Limping past the piano, still resting on the floor with one end on the bottom stair, I suggested that we try to right it and roll it on out the door, which we did with relative ease.

“Here, give me the keys. You can’t drive,” ordered Farrah.

"I'll drive,” I winced. After all, no one tells me I can’t do anything. =

By Sandy Foster
Dear Tom,

It’s been a long while since I’ve written – more than five years, to be exact, but you’ve been on my mind a lot lately. It seems everywhere I go, there you are. Today I explored the town of Buhler, far away from your mountains of Colorado, yet every store contained something that reminded me so much of you. Probably because your birthday is Sunday.

Buhler has a quaint downtown district that reminds me of Evergreen when we used to go there as kids. Boy, some memories in those annual vacations, huh? Remember the Dillon’s recreation ranch, the horseback rides (or, in your case, the donkey ride that about took your head off when it ran into the barn with the low-hanging roof!), the trout fishing, and that little taffy store? We would stand and watch the taffy pull through the window, mouths watering as we selected the mixed flavors to take with us. Funny how none of that taffy ever made it all the way back home to Kansas.

The Rustic Edge store in Buhler is Colorado through-and-through. The refreshing aroma of pine – maybe it was just in my imagination – permeated the air as I browsed this store. It reminded me so much of hiking up the mountain behind your house, taking Sam trout fishing in a secluded mountain stream, or exploring abandoned cabins in the far reaches of the mountaintops.

Adrian’s Boutique, a gift store you would probably avoid, even contained a variety of items that made me think of you. Porcelain figurines prominently displayed for Father’s Day reminded me of you when Sam was small. One figurine was of a father sitting with outstretched arms on his knees, cradling his newborn child. I remember how very much you wanted a child and how difficult it was for Mary Jo to conceive. I hope you told Sam early and often just how much he was wanted. Another figurine showed a father walking alongside a larger boy, his arm gently resting on the boy’s shoulder, as if giving him some important father-son advice. This same store displayed the very plaque that you had displayed over the couch in your old Salida house: “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord”. You know, when I first saw that hanging on the wall at your house, it opened up a new perspective of you in your adult life. We really didn’t have nearly enough face-to-face opportunities to share our adult lives once you moved away.

Buhler also has a wonderful art gallery, especially for such a small town. The gallery displays various mediums from area artists. One artist painted deviations of roads, the titles of which completed the analogy to life. Each featured a different type of road, from a winding country dirt road, to a straight and narrow highway disappearing into the distance, to the rocky, hilly road. Each painting represented our paths in life. Our two roads certainly diverged into separate paths – me taking the safe, secure paved road while your adventurous side took you elsewhere.

I must tell you, however, that when our roads crossed that Christmas you hosted the family dinner, your sense of adventure was contagious! Who’d have thought we’d convince the entire family – what were there, fourteen or fifteen of us – to climb onto snowmobiles on Christmas morning! What with your love for speed and familiarity with the machines, you had me scared to death! And I know for a fact after Karen and Jill steered into that tree, you’ll never see them climb on one again! Nor will I, brother Tom, despite your insistence that snowmobiling is better than the slopes. I think I’ll stick to skiing. Remember when we returned, we realized Mom had accidentally left the camera on all day filming the wall until she ran the battery down? That Christmas is one I’ll never forget.

The glass blower of Buhler also displays some of his work at this gallery, but the piece that reminded me of you sat on a cement floor in his shop a couple of blocks away. There, lying on the floor in a row with several replicas of the same type of piece, was an ostrich- egg-sized blown glass encompassing a twirling ribbon that ended halfway up the length of the glass. There the ribbon was cut short. Once again, a reminder of how our brother-sister relationship was cut short. Not that I’m blaming you, of course.

Our roads in life have certainly taken different routes, but surely you know how similar many of our experiences were. We weren’t all that different in the things that matter, like family. I have tried to stay connected to Sam, you know – maybe he’s told you. I really am proud of him for stepping up and taking responsibility for his son. I know he hasn’t fulfilled your dreams for him to finish college, but give him a break. He was just a senior and hadn’t even graduated when you moved on. He attempted college, but after you left, his life was a mess. He was searching for answers to questions to which only God knows the answers. College isn’t for everyone, you know. I can remember you saying that very thing to Mom and Dad yourself. In fact, Sam is so much like you were at his age. Maybe that’s why you were so hard on him, expecting more than he was capable of giving at the time. But he has a decent job and works hard to provide for that grandson of yours.

I guess the last time I saw you was Thanksgiving, 2001, at Karen’s house in Kansas City. Remember taking us to see the Plaza lights? Once again, you had me scared to death with your aggressive city driving. I’m sure the Plaza lights were impressive, but I was so tense in the back seat, I couldn’t really enjoy the sights. Maybe someday I’ll go back there again when I can enjoy the scenery without recalling that bittersweet holiday.

I have pictures of that holiday, with Mom and Dad, you and Mary Jo, Karen and Dale, Farrah and Brent, and David and me. There is one picture that I look at frequently. It shows Mom and Dad sitting on the couch, with you sitting on the floor in front of them, and Mary Jo on the other end of the couch. Everyone is relaxed and laughing except Mary Jo, whose expression is strained. And although you have a smile on your face, your eyes seem tired or sad. It wasn’t until later that I realized how much stress your marriage was under. It was just three weeks later that you left suddenly, without so much as a warning or goodbye, and I haven’t seen you since. For several months I would look at those pictures and wonder if I’d ever see Mom and Dad smile again.

Perhaps I should catch you up on what’s been going on since you left. Well, a month after you left, David and I returned to Karen’s for a weekend, but before the weekend was out, Dad called from back home to let us know that Mom had had a massive heart attack. The doctors suspected she had a blood clot from her hip surgery the previous summer, but we are all convinced it was quite simply a broken heart. We lost her, you know, but the doctors managed to bring her back. In Wichita they inserted a stint, but she suffered much damage to her heart. Maybe you’re already aware of all this.

Then in May we came out to Salida to celebrate with Sam as he graduated. You missed an important time in his life, but you would have been proud. (Probably not so proud of his partying and spending ways, but in the fact that he graduated with good grades.) In July of that year, Farrah and Brent were married and have since had two children, Caleb and Tessa. Of course, I think they are adorable. I’d send you pictures if I knew where to send them. Jill finished college at K-State, attended two years of vet-tech school, and now loves her job in Andover. Jackie married JP, one of Oklahoma's treasures, who fits right in with our family. Ben graduated from high school, went to Alva for a year before deciding he wanted to work. He flipped a pickup end over end. Let me tell you, that was a horrible phone call to wake up to. But he escaped serious injury. Now he is enjoying his work on a ranch south of town and is enjoying the bachelor life.

After months and months of recuperation, Mom was finally able to have the back surgery she had been cleared for before she was struck down with the heart attack. Now she is able to move around so much better than before. She and Dad still plant a prolific garden, and with all the yard work besides, they have just about more than they can keep up with. Uncle Tom bought Dad a riding lawn mower, and I gotta tell ‘ya, I thought you were crazy allowing Sam to drive that three-wheeler in Colorado when he was only five or six, but now I’d trust that 5-year-old Sam on a three-wheeler more than I would Dad on that touchy riding lawn mower! I guess Dad was a bit overwhelmed with it, too, because he has since sold it. Thankfully Mom and Dad are in fairly good health and they stay relatively active.

David finally realized his future at Great Plains would never get any brighter, with the horrific hours and lack of respect from his boss, so he quit and took a job at X-tra Factors. We moved to town and now live a few blocks from Mom and Dad. We love town life!

I’m really sorry I’ve taken so long to tell you how much I miss you, Tom. When you left I would send flowers each month, but people told me I shouldn’t put myself through so much pain. Your absence left such a void. And when I would go to your new place, I was met with such a cold, stony silence, that I stopped going so often. You were never there anyway. I think about you every day and wonder when we’ll be together to catch up face-to-face. I just wanted to tell you happy birthday on Sunday. I know you don’t celebrate birthdays anymore, but I still do. It is still just incomprehensible to me that you will remain 47 forever, and now I – your once younger sis- am older than you. That’s just not the way life is supposed to be. Sometimes, like today, I feel your presence, ever fleeting, as if you are just around the corner in front of me, but I can never catch up. I feel your nearness and truly believe you are my guardian angel. Tell Grandma and Granddad hello. I will meet up with you again sometime. I love you. That’s something I don’t think I ever said before you died.

Love,

Sis

= = __=__

= = Andrew, please center the title and author and indent all paragraphs, with one exception. Please leave the line “Bam! “Ow! Too late, coach. Fire in my wrist!” where it is, flush with left edge. Please indent 10 spaces on “Bam! “Awwwh! That’s gonna leave a mark!” and also the line below it, “This is no time to be silly!” Please indent 20 spaces on “Bam! //“Uhhh! Fire in my tail. That had to break something!”// Please indent 30 spaces on “//BAM! “Uhawhhhh! My back, need to yell for… thereafter return to normal indentation of paragraphs. Thank you, this is probably a bit much to ask of you.//)

Learned May 23, 2007 To be Remembered in the Future
By Meg Rice

Evidently, four years of college ice skating contributed to my false sense of security about roller blades. The morning of our final field trip with my first grade students proved busy as I helped my brood learn to skate. Students who could already skate either struck out on their own to enjoy a solo skate, or grabbed a classmate and shifted into “teacher-mode.” Brave parents ventured out on wheels as well. Individuals scuttled around the rink edges, periodically grasping at the walls or clinging to window sills. Pairs and trios held hands in a group effort to keep each other up off the floor. Periodic pileups occurred, requiring a range of responses. Sometimes assistance to untangle limbs and wheels was needed, other times, only a smile was needed, as they extricated themselves without adult help. Miraculously, no child was seriously injured during the entire morning!

Thus began many laughter-filled lessons. As I handed down skating skills to the next generation, I smiled until my face hurt. Mostly, I assisted horizontal children back up to their former vertical positions. I held their tiny hands two at a time and acted as the buoy to keep them afloat. Many children became skilled in snow-plowing their way around the rink. This eliminated the need to lift their wheels from the floor. Consequently, we reduced the frequency with which they grasped at the air, lost control of feet and wheels and lost altitude. Skating generated joyful grins and giggles for the first ninety minutes at the Pretty Prairie Roller Rink. Parents, students and teachers all flashed cameras to photograph the last celebration of our year of life together. Joy reflected in Jenna’s upturned, jack-o-lantern grin as she giggled, “This is my best day of school ever! We get to skate and we haven’t fallen down!” Sadly, our time at the rink was quickly spent. In the interest of winding things down, the rink leader began a limbo competition, which voluntarily removed many skaters from the rink.

During that time, when most everyone else enjoyed the limbo competition, I decided to skate a few solo rounds, unencumbered by small hands or vigilance for my students’ safety. Surely, I wouldn’t be missed, skating a few laps for old time’s sake. All eyes and cameras were focused on the limbo pole and the rolling bodies beneath it. I would skate a few rounds, return to take a breather and watch the competition. My brief absence would not be noticed or cause harm to anyone.

As it turned out, I was completely correct about skating unnoticed! After a morning of moving in tandem with shorter legs, I delighted in skating alone: full adult strides, stroked in time with the music, no need to hold back or wait on anyone: Absolute freedom! My fingers snapped and after so many years, the words came right back and I sang along: “All around the limbo clock, hey, let’s do the limbo rock.” Forgotten muscles enjoyed the challenge as the bliss of floating over the floor returned. I wondered if birds in flight felt the same about gliding through the air, as I enjoyed rolling through its cooling effect in that hot, sweaty place.

As a child, it had been about not losing the string necklace that held a skate key for tightening metal skates onto my KEDS. It was also about remaining suspended above sandpaper sidewalks. On special occasions, it was about wearing real shoe skates with rubber wheels on wooden rinks. As a teenager, it meant pink shoe skates, wooden floors, glittering suspended disco balls, much better music and the boy I had hoped would ask me to skate. In college it had been about my white leather skates gliding forwards and backwards, in cross-overs, hops and spins on that cold, wet, slick, white ice. Flooded with a mixture of rink memories I swayed with the music round after round.

Now that school was about to end, I thought I’d definitely want to buy a pair of roller blades and continue this love affair with motion all summer. It had been three years since that feeling of health, strength and well-being had flooded my body with memories of younger, more athletic times. The desire to recapture former strength could not be ignored.

Approaching the far end of the rink, I looked toward the limbo line. A crowd twenty to twenty-five deep remained in the competition. One more round and I’d join the cheering section to relax and cool down. Whether it was the loss of concentration or the sudden twist of the head to assess the crowd; which initiated the following events will never be known, but when I fully refocused on my skating, a startling realization hit my mind as if I had hit a wall!

· The floor was coming up, · Those gaudy skates were directly in front of my eyes; //not good!// · And that slow-motion falling sensation was not to be ignored. //Oh, dear!//

“//Tuck you head, curl into a ball. Hands up, don’t break a wrist, absorb the shock. Roll up! Roll up! People this has got to be a reflex or you’re gonna get// //hurt someday.// //Show me 5 good falls before you practice strokes or turns.”//

“Why is my ice coach screaming in my head? This is no ice rink?”

//“Do it, just do it! It’s gotta be a reflex.”//

Bam! “Ow! Too late, coach. Fire in my wrist!” Bam! “Awwwh! That’s gonna leave a mark!” //“This is no time to be silly!”// Bam! //“Uhhh! Fire in my tail. That had to break something!” BAM! “Uhawhhhh! My back, need to yell for…//

//can’t breathe, Can’t Breathe, CAN’T BREATHE! Come on air move. Move in, move out, please! Roll over, wave for help. They’ll see you. They’ll come, they’ll help you breathe……… They’re waving back, they’re smiling, they’re looking away, they can’t tell I’m hurt. For cryin’ out loud!”//

“I’d love to but I can’t breathe.” //“Stop being silly. This is no time to joke!”// “If I don’t joke I’m gonna get really scared here.” //“Come on air, move!”// “Newspaper headlines are all going to say, “CHENEY TEACHER EXPIRES INSTEAD OF RETIRES.” //“This is no time to rhyme! Get serious, think. Make yourself breathe. Hit yourself in the chest, it can’t hurt, it might help. Hit!” -thump-// "Nothing!” //“Hit again, harder!” -thump//- “Nothing!” "//Hit again!” -thump//- ”Nothing’s moving in or out here. No air!” //“I don’t care, just keep doing it, it has to work. Sooner or later, it has to work. Hit.” -thump- “Hit.” -thump- “Hit, again…hit again!" "What?...Oh! Thank you, God, it’s Aaron, my sweet Aaron. Look at that smile. He can’t tell how much I hurt. I’ve got to make him hear me. Hit again.” -thump- “Breathe in.”//

//“I can’t get up.”//
 * Through his smile, Aaron said, “Give me your hand, Mrs. Rice. I’ll pull you up.”**
 * “I know, I’m strong, I can pull you up. Give me your hand.” Aaron encouraged.**

//“Hit again.” -thump- “Shake your head.”// //“NO, I’m hurt. I have to lay still.”// //Hit again. -thump-// //“Go get Mrs. Keller.”// He can’t hear me. I’m not loud enough. Try again. //“Go get Mrs. Keller.”// Oh, great, he can’t lip read and he looks confused. How long can your brain go without oxygen before…try again! //“Go get”…//here comes Morgan, pigtails flying, she’s bending down, sitting, can’t let her see how much it hurts, don’t want to frighten her. She’s putting her ear by my mouth, she’ll figure it out. //“Go Get Mrs. Keller.”// Oh, that’s better. I’m breathing better now!


 * “Aaron, she’s hurt. Go Get Mrs. Keller. Hurry!” Morgan clearly shouted, then, more softly, “Are you alright, Mrs. Rice? Oh...” “Oh, good, Mrs. Keller is coming. Hang on!”**

Watching Aaron’s four foot frame shuffling slowly out of view, his elbows flying, I wondered how long it would take him to effect my rescue and why I neglected to teach him speed skating earlier in the morning.

Hey, //are// you alright? No? Hold on. One of my parents is a nurse. We’ll get you some help. Don’t try to get up. Just stay there.”**
 * “Mrs. Rice, are you okay? We thought you were joking. We couldn’t tell, then, Kori said, “Maybe you better go check that out.” Aaron came across the floor looking worried.

The last thirty minutes at the rink were spent horizontal on the floor, awaiting the arrival of E.M.T.'s in their bouncy, lurching ambulance.

“Hi, I’m Denise, with Pretty Prairie E.M.T.’s. How did you fall? What part of you hit first? Did you hit your head? Can you move your fingers? Arms? Feet? Legs? We’ll help sit you up. On three, slowly lift. Oh, no, put her down, put her back down! We’re going to immobilize your head and neck with a collar, log-roll you onto a back board, and transport to a hospital for X-rays. I don’t want to scare you, but if you’ve broken something, we don’t want to create permanent damage. She’s going out to get a collar to immobilize your head and neck. What? We don’t have an adult collar? We’ll use a head-bed. We’re going to strap you to the board to minimize movement and use a head bed to immobilize your head and neck. We need to tape your head down. Are you claustrophobic? Okay, honey, I know this ambulance looks like a limo, but it’s going to be a long, bumpy ride. We’ll try to keep you comfortable, but with your back injuries, it’s going to hurt a lot. I’m sorry.”

Being lifted up into a sitting position; excruciating, impossible; nearly passing out while being log-rolled onto the back board, an experience I hope to never repeat. The morning culminated in an unexpected adventure in long distance travel to the hospital of my choice; in pain not previously known to my humbled and fearful mind. How surreal to gaze into a perfectly blue and puffy white Kansas sky as the gurney jolted out to the ambulance. I imaged my students eating lunch at the park and felt hot tears. I won’t get to hug my kids good-bye, I thought, as the sky was replaced by latches, hooks and assorted medical apparatus on the ceiling of the ambulance. So many times, our daughter had seen the world from this perspective. I half expected her to appear and trade places with me. She was the one more experienced in such travel. But no, this was my turn, and I had done this frightful, unknown damage to myself. I alone was on this journey to the hospital.

I recall thinking, “I should pray for myself.” I felt terrified by searing sensations that flooded my body and brain. I silently begged God to help me with my fears, asked for safe arrival at the hospital, told Him my heart’s desire about my physical future and left it all in His hands. I recalled my prayer warrior friend, Mary Ann, assured me it is always acceptable to pray to God concerning our heart’s desires. At that moment in time, it seemed important to be specific.

Denise, the EMT, re-took and reported vital signs that were not as healthy as when first taken at the rink. I wondered if the new numbers quantified my fear or measured physical changes in the body that were somehow unrelated to the terrors in my imagination.

Erin, a mom from another classroom, kept me calm after everyone left the rink for lunch at the park. She rode in the cab and called back to me periodically, keeping me distracted while Denise phoned the hospital with my vital signs and our estimated time of arrival. The ride dragged on. On several occasions traffic required our driver to slam on the brakes; jolting every vertabre in my spine. Upon arriving at the emergency room, Erin stayed with me until my husband arrived. Erin knew more about comforting people in hospitals than anyone should ever need to know. Chronic illnesses of parents and family members required that she learn. I will be forever indebted to her for holding my hand, for her soothing voice and for her compassionate presence that day.

After a six hour stay in the ER and two round trips to the “MAKE YOU GLOW IN THE DARK LAB” a dozen or more x-rays showed no broken bone in my wrist or back; a huge relief. So then, why that grinding, blinding pain I wondered? I knew better than to ask. Compassion and sympathy walked out with Erin soon after my husband, Paul, arrived. The faces of medical personnel who read my chart, ranged from amused to recriminating. “You are 55 years old! What’s a woman your age doing on roller blades?” My like-minded husband had already declared a moratorium on any future skating. Thus, he vaporized the summer of blissful skating I had imagined earlier that day.

Upon being released, Paul drove me and my many medications, first to find dinner, having not eaten since seven that morning, and then, home for multiple days of bed rest. There would be no year-end meetings at school for me the next day, just bed and meds.

Eight days later, liberated from bed rest and the fog inducing drugs once necessary, I thankfully and cautiously, became ambulatory again. Now clear of mind, I have become wiser concerning activities in which “people my age” should or should not participate. Having gathered years of emergency room experience, Doctor “In-a-hurry” shared his perspective: “I have noticed through the years, that when //roller blades// are responsible for the injuries people share with me, here in the //Emergency room//, that it’s never //“pretty”// for people above the age of…say 15...just something to consider in the future, if you are //ever// again tempted to strap blades or wheels onto your feet.” With smile of disdain, he turned on his heel and left the room to attend to the cardiac arrest victim across the hall.

Have you ever noticed when admitted to an E.R., whether for your own injuries, or those of a family member, there is //always// a cardiac patient immediately preceding or following your admittance, and they need immediate care? I ask this, not to be insensitive, or to complain about the hours it can add to one’s stay in the E.R., but to seek a perspective from which to view my injuries and emergency room experience. God answered my fear-filled ambulance prayers with no paralysis and what appears to be speedy progress in healing. I can only pray that the cardiac patient is also having a strong recovery and positive prognosis for his future.

A wake-up call, announcing the assorted realities and impact of aging upon my body, has never rung so loudly to alert my thinking and inform future choices. What a blessing to receive that call with a fall rather than a cardiac event. As pain subsides and mobility returns, I have no intention of becoming a couch potato in the future, however, a tad more caution and consideration must be given to future athletic feats and endeavors. May that which is gradually lost in physical prowess, be exchanged for equal measures of wisdom.

And so, to my fellow friends of a certain age, let this tale of my skating lesson be to you a cautionary tale. Perhaps by learning this lesson vicariously, you may avoid writing a similar disaster into your life story.

Remember, “Such accidents are never “pretty” for people above the age of…say 15.”__